


Designation: S

by VTsuion



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Rewrite, Canonical Character Death, Character Development, Developing Relationship, Drama, F/M, Human Experimentation, Inspired by Fanfiction, M/M, Past Child Abuse, Romance, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-21
Updated: 2019-12-21
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:48:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 20,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21536242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VTsuion/pseuds/VTsuion
Summary: The world has changed while Dr. John Watson was away in Afghanistan. Now there are computer labs at Barts, automated checkout lines at the grocery store that never do what he wants, and superhumans now walk the Earth. Sherlock Holmes, designation S-H, is one of them, a supergenius created by the nefarious Shelly Institute, hidden in the English moors. Now that the Institute has been destroyed, he's trying to live among normal humans, working as a consulting detective - the only one in the world - but it's not so easy to leave his past behind him. Still, John finds himself inexorably drawn to Sherlock and his dangerous life.
Relationships: Mary Morstan/John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 8
Kudos: 26
Collections: Holmestice Exchange - Winter 2019





	1. Sherlock

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Dryad](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dryad/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Don't Blink You'll Miss It (Lift Up Your Head)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5556464) by [umisabaku](https://archiveofourown.org/users/umisabaku/pseuds/umisabaku). 



> Thank you to the lovely [nottoolateforthegame](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nottoolateforthegame/pseuds/nottoolateforthegame) for betaing! All remaining mistakes are my own.
> 
> I also want to thank [nottoolateforthegame](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nottoolateforthegame/pseuds/nottoolateforthegame) for the wonderful fic they wrote for me based on the original Sherlock Holmes stories, [4 People Who Saw and 1 Who Observed](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21555313), which everyone should check out!

At night, John dreams of the battlefield.

_ Bullets fly through the air. Men shout as they hurry between cover behind crumbling walls and overturned cars - the ruins of another town ravaged by war - kicking up dust in their wake. _

_ “Watson!” _

_ Another man down. There’s too much blood. He can’t even see what he’s doing. _

_ “Watson!” _

_ He doesn’t look up in time. He barely feels the impact, and then his shoulder is on fire. He can hardly think over the pain. He needs to stop the bleeding. There’s too much blood… _

\--

John jolts into awareness. His heart is racing and he’s breathing fast. He can almost smell the gunpowder. His shoulder burns. He tries to call for a nurse, but he’s not in the hospital any more.

He’s in London, in a hotel if you could call it that. The ceiling, dull grey in the dim light, stares back at him. He forces himself upright, too wired to sleep, trapped between four dull walls. The room is empty; a nightstand, a bed, and nothing, as though no one lives there at all.

* * *

“You haven’t heard about them?” Mike demands again, as though he can’t believe his ears. “I knew you were off the grid, but I didn’t know it was that bad!”

Mike is everything John is not; healthy, happy, well adjusted to civilian life. He’s even adjusted his waistline a little since John last saw him, while, if anything, John has gotten thinner, and not in a good way.

John just shrugs.

“It turns out there was a laboratory hidden up north, in the moors, dedicated to making superhumans for some nefarious purpose,” Mike explains, reveling in the drama of it. “Well, there were two really; there was another lab in Japan where they made kids with real superpowers. The one here just made messed up geniuses, apparently.”

“As long as they weren’t shooting at us…” John trails off.

“One of them has been working at Barts, I can introduce you,” Mike suggests. “I should warn you, he isn’t very nice, but it’s impressive to watch.”

That’s not how he was planning on spending the day, but it’s not like John has anything better to do. “Sure.”

Mike is happy to lead the way back to Barts. It’s changed a lot over the years, and John is surprised how strange even the familiar parts feel, like it’s somehow too pristine. They step into a lab where a lone man is working with brightly colored chemicals, clearly too well dressed for a lab coat.

John isn’t sure what he expected a person created in a lab to look like, but this isn’t it. His skin is pale, like he hasn’t spent much time outside, but he looks like an ordinary man; tall and thin, with no extra limbs or unusually colored skin or hair. Even his eyes are just grey, a piercing grey, but grey.

But there is something about him… He doesn’t quite look like a soldier, though that’s the first thing John thinks of. His jet black hair falls over his forehead in tousled curls and he’s wearing a fitted suit that’s far from practical. But there’s something in those grey eyes, almost a desperation, like a man on the brink of death who  _ will _ pull through with sheer determination, not for his loved ones back home, but just out of spite. In a dying man, a look like that would be a relief, but in a healthy man - a superhuman one, at that - it’s a little more alarming.

John finds himself inexplicably drawn to him, but he’ll deal with whatever’s going on there later.

When the man moves, it’s in quick, precise movements. His words are even sharper, like bullets aimed to kill. “Afghanistan or Iraq?” he fires off without looking up from John’s phone - he borrowed it to send a text for some reason.

“What?” John isn’t sure he heard him right.

He repeats his question with a growing impatience.

“Afghanistan,” John replies reluctantly - the answer has already been drawn out of him, somehow. “I’m sorry, how did you know that?”

He’s interrupted before he can finish the question and when their conversation continues, it’s on a different topic entirely; “How do you feel about the violin?”

John glances over at Mike, but he just shrugs. He almost feels like he’s being tested. Finally, John says evenly, “I’m sorry. What?”

“I play the violin when I’m thinking, and sometimes I don’t talk for days on end - would that bother you?” he continues, as though it’s a perfectly natural extension of their conversation. When John doesn’t answer, he finally explains as though he shouldn’t have to, “You obviously need somewhere to live, can’t afford a place of your own, so you need a flatmate. I happen to be in a similar predicament.”

John doesn’t know how this complete stranger knows so much about him, but everything about the situation screams  _ danger _ . “How do you know about that?” he asks. Something inside him readies for a fight that he doubts he could win.

“You’ve recently returned from military service in Afghanistan, clearly haven’t settled in yet - you’re following around a man you barely knew years ago and haven’t seen since, and living in a hostel by the shape of your room key” - he must have seen it when John pulled out his phone - “Of course you’re looking for a flatmate,” he concludes.

“How did you know about Afghanistan?” John insists.

He just waves it off as though it’s nothing and John is tempted to believe him. Instead the man says, “I’ve got my eye on a nice little place in central London - together we could afford it. We’ll meet there, tomorrow evening, 7 o’clock.”

“I don’t even know your name!” John attempts to protest.

“My designation is S-H,” he replies, as though that means something, “But I’ve been going by Sherlock Holmes. The address is 221B Baker Street.”

With that, Sherlock Holmes bids them a good afternoon and runs off, apparently to retrieve his riding crop from the morgue.

* * *

The next day, John arrives at 221B Baker Street a little before seven. He doesn’t really know why he’s there - well he has some suspicions, but it’s ridiculous, he barely knows the man and it wasn’t exactly a stellar first impression, or that’s what he tells himself. At least this time, he has a slightly better idea of what to expect. He’s done his research, though he was surprised by how little information is out there about Sherlock or any of the other superhumans.

He doesn’t expect Sherlock to have already started moving in to the flat, but in retrospect, it shouldn’t come as too much of a surprise. John glances around, already thinking about how he’d use the space, though he still expects Sherlock - or anyone really - to reveal that it was all a joke, a big hoax, that of course superhumans don’t exist, Sherlock only knew John was in Afghanistan because Mike told him, and he can go on with his meaningless, mundane existence. He’s full of questions, but assuming it is all real, being created in a lab doesn’t sound like something he can just ask about.

Instead, John remarks as casually as he can, “I looked up the news reports - from when they broke you out of that Institute.”

“Find anything interesting?” Sherlock asks, sounding bored to death of the whole subject - of course, that’s probably the first thing anyone mentions to him.

Still, John forges on. “It said you could tell anything about anyone from a single glance.” He doesn’t bother to hide his disbelief.

Predictably, Sherlock waves it off. “Only the obvious.”

“How?” John asks. “Can you read minds?” He’s mostly joking, but then again, the man in front of him was apparently created in a secret lab, so who knows what’s possible.

Sherlock just gives him a look.

“No mind reading then,” John says. “Do you have any superpowers or are you just some kind of supergenius?”

Before Sherlock can answer, the bright red and blue lights of a police car stream in through the window from the street below. John’s first thought is to wonder what Sherlock has done. It turns out Detective Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard is there for Sherlock, not to arrest him, but to ask for his help solving a case. It’s obvious in retrospect; some of the more recent articles mentioned that Sherlock had become some kind of detective, John was just distracted by the whole thing about meeting a superhuman created in a lab.

To John’s surprise, Sherlock pulls him aside and says, “You’re a doctor.”

It’s an invitation - to a crime scene of all things, but it feels like an invitation into Sherlock’s dangerous, exciting life - and John can only say, “Oh, god, yes.”

There’s a thrill in his veins, his heart races as they take a taxi to the crime scene. He knows it’s probably just a corpse dumped in some alleyway - nothing romantic or exciting about that - but that’s just the beginning of a trail with some criminal at the end - Sherlock mentions a serial killer - and Sherlock’s excitement is contagious, made even more so by his obvious brilliance now that he’s faced with a real challenge.

In the back of John’s mind, there’s something telling him that neither of them should be so happy that someone’s been  _ murdered _ , but he brushes it aside. Afterall, they’re trying to catch the culprit. Still, he does try to be a little more discreet about it than Sherlock when they reach the crime scene. John can only imagine being raised in a lab didn’t help him with social norms.

John has had a lot of his expectations challenged in the past twenty four hours, first about Sherlock, and now about what it’s like to investigate a crime scene. He didn’t expect it to be so busy. The house - not a foggy alleyway - swarms with crime scene technicians in protective sheaths that almost look like futuristic spacesuits. The least surprising thing about the whole set up is the murdered woman, dressed all in pink.

Everything is going well, he examines a corpse, and then Sherlock decides to vanish on him. John shouldn’t really be surprised, but there’s something humiliating about following a man to a crime scene and then being abandoned, like he should have known better - like he should have known Sherlock better before agreeing to follow him around. Even worse, he has a sinking feeling that he’s being used.

John’s standing outside the house, no doubt looking lost, when one of the crime scene technicians that bickered with Sherlock when they arrived walks over to him. She’s one of the last people he wants to see. Sherlock’s abrupt departure has as good as proven her disparaging words right, and there’s nothing he can say to protest - he’s not even sure that he wants to. He bites back a frustrated retort that she doesn’t deserve - Sherlock can give as good as he gets.

She seems to take pity on John and offers him some advice, “Stay away from Sherlock.”

“Why?” John asks, for some reason still willing to defend a man he met twenty-four hours ago who just abandoned him at a crime scene.

She gives him a look like she thinks he’s crazy, and he probably deserves it. “You know he isn’t human. For all we know, he could just be toying with us. He doesn’t exactly have a high regard for human life. He could be behind all these murders, leading us on a wild goose chase, and we’d have no way of knowing. Even if we could catch him, who knows what superpowers he has. The farther you stay away from him, the better - for your own sake.”

She clearly believes her own words, and it’s hard for John to argue as much as he wants to. It doesn’t seem like Sherlock would really kill anyone, but how much does he really know about the man? The news reports certainly didn’t tell him anything. He was created in a lab for goodness’s sake, John could probably never completely understand him. Still, he can’t imagine staying away.

He’s lost in thought as he limps away from the crime scene. He’s struggling along what looks like a major street when he hears a phone ring. The sharp sound startles him, but when he glances over, he doesn’t expect the source of the noise to be a payphone. He didn’t even know you could call a payphone. He assumes that someone must have the wrong number and continues on in search of a cab.

When he hears another payphone ring, he doesn’t know what to think. It has to be a coincidence, or someone that keeps dialing wrong numbers - maybe the payphones are just a digit off from each other. By the time he passes the third, he knows something must be up. This isn’t even the weirdest thing that’s happened to him today. He’s thinking about moving in with a man who may or may not have superpowers - maybe it’s Sherlock trying to get ahold of him.

He answers the phone. He doesn’t expect there to actually be someone on the other end, and unfortunately, it isn’t Sherlock. It’s the most roundabout way anyone could have possibly gotten ahold of him, but it proves a point clearly enough. When a car drives up to the phone box, he gets inside without protest - not that the person on the other end gives him a chance to say anything before hanging up.

The car takes him to an empty garage, of all places. Standing leisurely between concrete pillars is what looks like a perfectly ordinary civil servant, in a conservative pinstripe suit with a bright red tie, leaning on a leathery black umbrella like a cane - John wonders if he’s using it to disguise a limp. But something about him reminds John inexorably of Sherlock.

He’s not quite the same. He’s tall, like Sherlock, but clearly with a much healthier appetite. He has neat, close-cropped black hair and a round face. He seems more imperious than manic, but there’s something in his cold grey eyes, that same desperation, like he’s fighting for his life and he  _ will not _ lose.

“You were made in a lab,” John blurts out.

“I see Sherlock chooses his pets well,” the man replies, not bothering to hide his condescension. “You are correct. My designation is M-H, though these days I am addressable as Mycroft Holmes.”

“What do you want with me?” John demands, still bristling at being called Sherlock’s pet. “I barely even know him.”

Mycroft looks at John as though he doesn’t believe a word he’s said. “And yet, you’re planning on moving in with him.”

“Am I really?” John retorts. “Can you tell the future? Is that how you were able to time everything?”

Mycroft doesn’t deign to answer. Instead he says, “I would be happy to pay you a meaningful sum of money, on a regular basis, to ease your way.”

A little money wouldn’t hurt, but he’d be mad to trust a man that lured him to an abandoned parking garage just for a little chat, even madder than he would have to be to move in with Sherlock Holmes. “Why?” John asks, waiting for the catch.

Mycroft finally gets around to the point of this whole little rendez-vous. “In exchange for information. Nothing indiscreet, nothing you’d feel uncomfortable with. Just tell me what he’s up to.”

“What do you want with him?” John demands. There’s an unspoken threat in his voice that he doesn’t expect and definitely doesn’t have the leverage to be making.

“You could say that I’m his rival. He would call me his arch enemy,” Mycroft says, as though it’s perfectly natural.

“From the Institute?” John feels like he has to clarify, because normal people don’t have archnemeses or even rivals, usually.

Mycroft again gives him a condescending look, as though he’s a dog that just performed a very simple trick after an inordinate amount of effort. But, in the end, he deigns to throw John a bone; “Sherlock and I were both part of Generation H. Only the best projects in each generation were allowed to survive, and I was always one step ahead.”

A retort about Mycroft’s modesty is on the tip of John’s tongue when his words fully register. And then, all John can manage is a subdued, “Oh.”

* * *

John is amazed that he manages to return to the flat unscathed.

He steps inside and finds Sherlock strewn across the sofa. He begins to wonder how long Sherlock has been waiting when he notices what he’s doing. He has one sleeve rolled up and is doing something with his arm. It doesn’t take a genius to see what’s going on.

John is already berating himself for his bad judgement as he makes his presence known. “What are you doing?”

Sherlock glances up at him, clearly annoyed by the interruption, but he shows John his forearm all the same, covered in a line of large square bandages. “Nicotine patches,” Sherlock explains nonchalantly. “They used drugs to keep us under control. Turns out it’s a difficult habit to break.”

John stops short. “They?” he asks, but he already knows.

“Our handlers,” Sherlock says, which wouldn’t actually answer John’s question if he hadn’t already guessed.

John doesn't know how to respond to something like that. The way both of them, Mycroft and Sherlock, talk about the Institute so casually, it doesn’t sound real. None of it seems like it could possibly be real. But everything about the man in front of him says that it is.

John doesn’t press, instead he remarks, “I just met Mycroft Holmes on my way back from the crime scene. He said he was your archnemesis.”

Sherlock seems to take it in stride. “He’s the most dangerous man you’ll ever meet. He took down the Shelley Institute single-handed.”

“Did he?” John can’t help but ask. From the articles, it sounded like it took a whole army to bust the Institute open, and even then they were almost too late - the evacuation had already begun. The name Mycroft Holmes wasn’t even mentioned.

Sherlock just waves it off. “They were getting in his way. It was a matter of time.”

John hesitates. “He said that you were both part of ‘Generation H,’ and he chose the same last name as you. Does that mean he’s basically your brother?”

To John’s surprise, Sherlock glares at him. “ _ Humans _ have ‘brothers,’” he says like it’s a foreign concept.

“And what are you?” John retorts.

“Not nearly as dull,” he says dismissively.

“Excuse me,” John says.

“We were created to be smarter, stronger, better in every way.” Sherlock leaves no question as to whether he thinks they succeeded.

“Then what do you want a human flatmate for?” John demands. He’s already standing and he takes a step toward the door.

“I didn’t want just any flatmate,” Sherlock says, as though that would be ridiculous and to be fair, not many people would put up with him. “There’s something about you…”

Sherlock stands abruptly and suddenly he’s much too close, staring at John with an inhuman intensity. John’s heart leaps into his throat where it pounds much too fast, but his hands are steady. He can feel Sherlock there, just inches away.

John belatedly steps backward, to leave a little more distance between them.

Finally, Sherlock continues, “You’re interesting. You're still slow and weak, but you don’t think like an ordinary human.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” John asks. He’s insulted, of course, but probably not as much as he should be, and he can’t deny that he’s curious.

Sherlock just changes the subject.

* * *

John sees Sherlock through the window, his hand raised to his mouth - John can almost see the capsule in his hand.  _ He’s too late _ .

“Sherlock!!” He tries to shout, but no one can hear him.

He levels his gun on instinct and fires without a second thought. He feels no remorse for the life he’s taken. He is frighteningly calm as he leaves the building to wait just outside the crime scene. He half expects Sherlock not to even notice him there.

He is even more surprised when Sherlock asks, “Are you alright?” This is the most genuine John has seen him.

John can only smile. Maybe things will work out alright after all.

He moves in to the flat, of course, and follows Sherlock around on his cases. John gets the feeling Sherlock mostly brings him along to have someone to monologue at and maybe to act as a barrier between him and the rest of the world, who still watch him with mistrust. He gets to examine a few corpses, but he doubts he’s really doing anything Sherlock couldn’t. But it is somewhat endearing to find that Sherlock isn’t always right. And whenever a client arrives, Sherlock glances over at John before accepting the case, which somehow makes it all worthwhile.

Not that Sherlock isn’t infuriating, leaving without warning as though John should be able to read his mind - he isn’t convinced Sherlock and Mycroft don’t have psychic powers - and assuming John will always be at his beck and call like he’s some overworked personal assistant. The idea of John having other plans is apparently beyond his powers of deduction. And at times he can be downright insulting.

Sherlock is in one of his worse moods. He calls it boredom, but John suspects it’s a chronic symptom of withdrawal. Either way, there’s only so much abuse that John will take. He’s been working on getting over his unhealthy crush on a man created in a lab who doesn’t even see him as human and actually has a girlfriend now - it’s great progress - so he goes to spend the night at her place where everything is blissfully, if a little blandly, normal.

The next morning he turns on the telly as he stretches out his back from spending the night on the sofa - not that he hasn’t slept on worse. When he sees Baker Street blown apart by a gas explosion, all his anger from the night before vanishes.

He runs out the door as though there’s anything he can do that hasn’t been done already, hoping desperately that Sherlock is alive and well. He must be made of stronger stuff, but he doubts Sherlock would take well to being confined to a hospital bed.

Sherlock is, of course, unharmed, sitting casually in the living room, arguing with Mycroft as though nothing happened. Still, John lets out an unsteady sigh of relief and feels a little giddy - not that Sherlock’s indifference to his arrival helps his mood. John has to remind himself that it doesn’t matter what Sherlock thinks because he has a  _ girlfriend _ .

That doesn’t stop his heart from leaping when Sherlock says with some irony, “I’m lost without my blogger,” before leading the way out the door.

He sweeps out of the room like a force of nature, eager and indomitable, and John can only follow in his wake, his heart racing, but his hands steady.

Of course, it was not a gas leak that destroyed the flat across the street; that would be too much of a coincidence. The trail leads them to a pair of shoes left in the unoccupied basement flat, 221C. Sherlock says they’re familiar, but will say no more.

And then the phone rings. 

“Hello, sexy.” On the other end is a crying woman, who has been threatened into acting as the voice of the hidden mastermind, who only goes by Moriarty. It’s a diabolical game; they are presented with a mystery that must be solved before the victim’s time runs out. And then they get another.

It’s a trap, it can only be a trap. There’s no way someone would go through so much effort to arrange something like this if they didn’t get anything out of it. It takes John embarrassingly long to figure out what.

Sherlock probably doesn’t even realize he’s being flirted with, but John can see how intrigued he is - probably the closest he’s ever come to having feelings for someone. Sherlock is the happiest John has ever seen him, and the most callous. His insides twist with a mix of fear and jealousy - the latter of which should probably be the last thing on his mind.

Finally, John snaps, “There are  _ people dying _ , Sherlock!” He knows he’s grasping at straws, Sherlock’s concern for others has always been tenuous at best and now... he’s probably already gone somewhere John can’t reach him.

Of course, Sherlock answers, “So?”

“Why are you even doing this if you don’t care about them?” John demands. It’s probably the wrong thing to say. The last thing he wants to do is push Sherlock over the edge, and he’s so close already, but it slips out. He was never good at hiding his feelings.

“I’m not human, John,” he answers. There’s almost a threat in his voice and for the first time John is a little frightened  _ of _ Sherlock. “I wasn’t made to care. It just gets in the way.”

There’s nothing John can say to that. Of course this is what Sherlock was made to be. He wonders if Sherlock hasn’t started to think he’s getting in the way, and what will happen then.

* * *

One moment John is on his way to Sarah’s without a care in the world - or close enough - the next thing he knows, a dark cloth bag drops over his head. He swings without thinking, flailing wildly at his assailant. He lands a hit, but it’s not enough. Someone pins back his arms to force on a heavy, bulky jacket and slips a speaker into his ear.

“I would cooperate if I were you,” a soft voice coos in his ear.

The man on the other end is trying to be seductive and threatening all at once, but John finds that he’s mostly annoyed. He’s frightened, of course, and frustrated that there’s nothing he can do but lead Sherlock into a trap, but at least he has standards. He’s more relieved than he has any right to be that serial bomber is apparently not his type.

He doesn’t struggle - he knows where that would lead. He’s still hoping there’s some way out of this, that Moriarty is just using him as another pawn to entice Sherlock to solve another mystery and that he’ll be released when Sherlock solves it and it’s all over. He even dares to hope that Sherlock might care about him just enough to get the case over with quickly. But John knows there’s got to be more to it than that; he has no illusions that he’s anything more than a pet to Sherlock, but he didn’t know any of the other victims.

John keeps his head down and does what the voice says, waiting for an opening of any kind. He’s surprised when he’s led into a public pool, of all places, saturated with the smell of chlorine. It’s empty, closed for the night.

He waits.

“Show time,” the voice in his ear says at last.

He walks mechanically down the hallway, at least now he can see his surroundings. That doesn’t stop his heart from pounding in his ears. He pushes open the double doors and steps inside.

His heart drops. The soft light inside illuminates a small pool, and standing at the edge is Sherlock, holding a memory stick up in the air.

The voice in his ear prompts him, and John speaks, simultaneously trying and trying not to make it a convincing performance. “‘Evening. This is a turn up, isn’t it Sherlock?”

Sherlock’s eyes widen. It may be the first time that John has seen him afraid, and it would be flattering if John wasn’t so terrified himself. “John? What the hell are you-?”

It’s a relief when John is allowed to step a little closer and reveal the deception, even as Moriarty toys with him.

And then the man himself strides into the room. He’s familiar, but John can’t place him. It’s not the familiarity that’s striking, at least not his face, but his  _ eyes _ . He’s just like Sherlock and Mycroft, a little more wild, but he’s got that same desperation; he’s also fighting for his life. But this time John knows better than to say anything.

“ _ Jim _ . From the hospital?” Moriarty attempts to remind them.

It still takes a moment for the name and face to come together. He was Molly’s boyfriend, who Sherlock rudely outed at the lab just days before, but he looks so different now. He looked like a normal person then, but now it’s unmistakable what he really is.

“J-M,” Sherlock says at last. John recognizes it as his designation.

“It’s Jim Moriarty now,” he corrects Sherlock with a teasing lilt. He’s still flirting. “That’s the fad, isn’t it? A human name, a human pet.”

Sherlock’s eyes flicker over to John. He appreciates the concern, if not the label. All he can do is hope it doesn’t stick - assuming they get out of here.

“It’s maddening, isn’t it?” Moriarty asks, drawing Sherlock’s attention back to himself. “Being free at last, but not quite. No murder, arson, not even theft” - he ticks them off his fingers - “None of the fun stuff. There’s nothing worse than being a wolf among sheep and not being allowed to hunt, is there, Sherlock?”

“People have died,” Sherlock snaps with more righteous anger than John could have possibly expected. His heart rate picks up, but not because of the danger he’s in.

Moriarty gives an exaggerated sigh. “ _ Humans _ have died.”

Sherlock glances over at John again.

Moriarty pretends to gag. “You didn’t even tell him about little Carl, even after I went through so much trouble to get you his shoes, and I’m sure you remember the pool where it happened” - he gestures at their surroundings. “It’s almost like you’re  _ ashamed _ of what you are. Like you  _ want _ to be human. But you can’t tell me you aren’t bored. M-H can get his kicks starting wars from behind a desk, but you and me, we’re different, we like to be in the thick of it all.”

“At least I don’t need to kill people,” Sherlock retorts.

“Yes, you just need someone else to do it for you,” Moriarty taunts back. “We both know that without me, you’d be bored out of your mind.”

Sherlock can’t argue with that, they all know how bitterly he was complaining of being bored before Moriarty came around.

And then, to John’s complete and utter surprise, Moriarty says, “Well, I’d better be off. So nice to have a proper chat,” and leaves.

The door clicks shut behind him. For a moment, Sherlock doesn’t move. He’s still holding John’s gun, trained on the door. They both expect Moriarty to come back any second. But then he glances over at John and it’s like he can’t stop himself. Sherlock drops to his knees in front of him. The gun clatters to the ground.

“Alright?” Sherlock asks urgently, nearly breathless.

At first John doesn’t even understand what he’s saying.

“Are you alright?” Sherlock insists, as he stands to tear off the bulky overcoat and the vest covered in explosives. He throws them across the room, as though that would be enough to save them.

And then he’s back on John in an instant, patting down his torso as though searching for more explosives, but John’s shirt isn’t that baggy.

“Sherlock,” John says, resting his hands on Sherlock’s arms to stop him, slow him down.

He can hear his heart still pounding. The fervor of fighting for his life has given way to a new excitement. He can feel the proximity, Sherlock’s lean, immaculately, tightly dressed form, suddenly much too close, his hands resting around John’s waist. And he’s looking at John, his eyes a bright, pale blue in the light of the pool, staring into John’s eyes as though he’s lost in them. He can feel an uncertainty and a longing - a  _ need _ \- radiating off of Sherlock. It’s almost overwhelming.

Reflexively, John reaches up to kiss Sherlock, to reassure him.

But Sherlock is gone, suddenly standing a few feet away. He runs out to check on the door, to see if Moriarty is still there.

John is confused and then a little stung by the rejection, but he doesn’t have time to begin to process it as the enormity of everything that just happened crashes down on him and his legs give way.

* * *

They’re both subdued the whole ride home. John is just exhausted. Sherlock seems on edge. He keeps glancing over at John like he has to confirm he’s still there. But John isn’t ready to deal with whatever is going on. When they arrive back at the flat, John goes straight up to his room and collapses. He hears a few strains from the violin drifting up the stairs before he’s out like a light.

The next day, John expects Sherlock to be sleeping off the case. He’s been awake for days and even with superhuman endurance, he needs to rest. John is looking forward to having a little space, a little time to process everything - Sherlock’s rejection included. Maybe he’ll spend some time at Sarah’s, go on a normal date that doesn’t involve dead bodies or homicidal maniacs, with someone that actually wants to be with him.

His plans are ruined the moment he comes downstairs to find Sherlock sitting at his computer, as active as ever. There is no question as to whether he’s slept. He glances up at John’s arrival and then hastily returns to his computer as John sets about preparing breakfast. It’s probably for the best that neither of them has mentioned the evening before, though John manages to resent it a little.

Still, it’s nice to have a quiet morning at home after everything that happened. Even Sherlock seems to have calmed down. He seems content to tap away at his computer, doing who knows what. Probably checking to see if Moriarty hasn’t left him any more puzzles to solve. Neither of them talks much, but to John’s surprise, when he steps out to go for a walk, maybe run some errands that were forgotten the evening before, or visit Sarah, Sherlock drops everything he’s doing and makes to follow after.

At first, John thinks Sherlock just needs some air, or is planning on dragging John off somewhere after an overlooked clue. But he just follows John on his errands, watching their surroundings with a keen eye and occasionally making snide remarks about passers-by. He even lends John a hand with the machine at the grocery store, which of course does exactly what he wants on the first try.

It’s almost like John has an overactive guard dog. It’s endearing, in a strange sort of way. However, it soon becomes apparent that Sherlock is planning on following John around  _ everywhere _ , and that doesn’t take long at all to become stifling. It would be too much even if John didn’t already have a lot to process.

“You know, the chances of me getting jumped on my way to the store are next to nill,” John finally says. He tries to keep his voice gentle, but he’s more than a little frustrated.

Predictably, Sherlock just waves it off. “I don’t want to wait around if a mystery shows up while you’re out. You take  _ forever _ to get back when you’re on errands.”

“What if a client comes by while you’re out following me around?” John retorts.

“They can wait,” Sherlock says dismissively.

John just gives it up as a bad job and swears he’ll try another approach later. Thankfully, after a few days, Sherlock finally elects to remain by his computer when John leaves the flat. His concern is touching, but John needs at least a little time away from Sherlock’s sharp gaze.

John spends a lot of time wondering what went wrong that evening at the pool. He doesn’t think much about Moriarty - probably less than he should, to be honest. Instead it’s the moment afterward that keeps replaying in his mind. Sherlock’s hands on his hips, their bodies so close he can almost feel the heat radiating off of Sherlock, and that strangely vulnerable, almost human expression. They both leaned in and then- nothing.

John can only sigh at the thought. For an instant there he was so certain, it was so obvious that Sherlock was interested - in  _ him _ . But maybe it was just the heat of the moment, John’s own desires playing tricks on him. And even if Sherlock is interested, he has to remind himself that it’s a terrible idea. Even if he would drop everything in a heartbeat.

It doesn’t help that John can’t stop himself from imagining what would have happened if things had gone right. Sherlock is probably a better kisser than he has any right to be, and John can almost feel those long, clever fingers dancing across his skin. Even being with Sarah doesn’t stop him from thinking about it, though he knows it’s unfair to her, impossible as it may be.

* * *

Mycroft slides a photograph across the table, toward Sherlock. They’re sitting around a delicate little tea table in Buckingham Palace, which John still can’t quite believe.

“It’s not like we haven’t been here before,” Sherlock said, while John stared at the golden walls. And then he and Mycroft exchanged a glance and hastily changed the topic.

Now, John cranes over to see the woman in the photograph. She’s very attractive, and the way she’s walking says that she knows it, but there’s another look in her eyes that John would recognize anywhere.

“A-I,” Sherlock says in recognition. “She hasn’t changed a bit.”

Mycroft nods. “She currently goes by Irene Adler.”

John can’t help but ask, “What was she doing at the Institute?”

Mycroft just looks at Sherlock, as though daring him to answer.

Sherlock just scoffs. “Most of us were created not to have physical needs, they just get in the way,” he says with some disdain. The implication about Ms. Adler is clear.

Still, when he finds out she’s playing  _ his _ game, of course he’s intrigued. John hopes this isn’t going where he thinks it is, because he definitely can’t compete with a professional.

Of course, when they show up at her apartment, she greets them completely naked. John does his best not to stare like a proper gentleman. He’s seen enough to be a little embarrassed already - she is beautiful, and apparently he has a type. Sherlock, on the other hand, does nothing but stare. She’s clearly figured out his identity already, because he looks like himself by the time John joins them, not the timid priest he was disguised as.

However, John is surprised when Sherlock throws up his arms in frustration. “How do you do it?” he demands.

She just gives him a look.

“This isn’t what we were made for! We’re not supposed to be able to form attachments, but I saw her, she’s  _ happy _ ” - Sherlock says the word as though Ms. Adler must have done something terrible to have such an effect - “That means you must reciprocate. But how?”

John cannot believe they are having this conversation. Ms. Adler glances between John and Sherlock as though she’s piecing together what’s going on. John frantically waves his arms in an attempt to explain that it’s not what she thinks, still desperately avoiding looking down.

“It’s not that hard,” she says, almost sweetly, but there’s a distinct touch of condescension and underneath that, somehow a hint of a threat. “You seem to have managed so far.” She glances over at John again. “Though no one likes a coward in matters of love.”

“Caring is a weakness,” Sherlock protests. “We’re not supposed to have weaknesses.”

She just shakes her head. “We’re not in the Institute any more, Shirly, or should I say S-H? Now, I can’t believe you just came all the way here just to vent your relationship troubles at me.”

Afterwards, John can only ask, “You have feelings for someone? You?” He’s torn between hoping beyond hope that Sherlock has feelings for him and dreading the inevitable confession that he’s fallen in love with Moriarty.

Sherlock throws up his hands again. “Apparently! It shouldn’t be possible! We’re not supposed to form attachments! But I was so worried...”

His eyes meet John’s and suddenly it clicks - that evening at the pool; he’s never seen Sherlock more frightened than that, all because he was worried about John. He’s about to say something, Sherlock’s name is on the tip of his tongue.

And then the moment is gone as Sherlock continues, “And you’re  _ human _ .”

“What’s wrong with that?” John demands as his heart sinks.

“You’re so…” - Sherlock gestures wildly - “breakable - and dull.”

“Thanks,” John says bitterly. He moves away, trying not to think too much about the rejection. He got his hopes up for just a second and this is where it’s gotten him. Even now, he’s still trying to rationalize. After all, Sherlock did admit he’s interested in him, maybe he just needs some time, but John’s not willing to give that to him right now. Damn his terrible taste.

Sherlock follows after him. “All humans are,” he attempts, as though somehow that makes it better.

John is done. He has a date that night and he might as well get ready for it. Not that it turns out his normal love life is going much better.

“You know, my friends are wrong about you,” Jeanette says, “You're a great boyfriend. Sherlock Holmes is a lucky man.”

“Jeanette, please,” John begs - not another one. “I’ll even walk your dog for you.”

“I don’t have a dog,” she says, and that about seals it.

John is still fuming later, frustrated about the latest disaster and even more frustrated because the truth is, he isn’t Sherlock’s boyfriend, he’s more like his dog. Sure, Sherlock cares about him, but he is only  _ human _ after all.

“I need the paper,” Sherlock says from where he’s sprawled on the couch with a vague gesture toward the door.

John frowns. He knows Sherlock doesn’t mean anything by it, but he never does. “I’m not your human pet,” John retorts.

“Fine,” Sherlock says. “Lestrade will get it.”

Of course, it’s not long before Lestrade arrives, brandishing their paper. “You shouldn’t leave it out on the stoop, it’ll get soggy,” he admonishes them.

Sherlock smirks.

John just shakes his head.

* * *

Sherlock and John wind through the labyrinthine, antiseptic halls of the Baskerville lab. They’re deep underground, under harsh artificial light that somehow underscores the absence of windows. It’s just shy of a miracle that they haven’t been caught yet. Clearly they haven’t met anyone who can tell the difference between the Holmes brothers. And Sherlock is far from inconspicuous. He stares at the scientists and caged animals as they pass, looking like a wild animal himself. Somehow their guide hasn’t noticed.

The officer is foolish enough to remark, “I guess you’re used to this sort of place, Mr. Holmes.”

Sherlock snaps back with an inappropriate deduction, startling the man into silence.

It doesn’t help that some of the scientists have started to stare back.

John knows better than to say anything until they’re back on the surface, driving away from the base a lot faster than is probably safe. “Sherlock, are you alright?” he asks hesitantly.

“Perfectly functional,” Sherlock snarls. “You should be more worried about yourself.”

John isn’t even sure what that’s supposed to mean. It doesn’t quite sound like a threat, though it would be easy to mistake it for one.

Sherlock is quiet and distant for the rest of the day, his collar turned up, supposedly against the wind. John supposes he shouldn’t be surprised. The lab probably isn’t so different from the one Sherlock was created in, and it doesn’t seem like it’s a place that holds a lot of happy memories.

John is still a little concerned, but there’s nothing he can do to stop Sherlock from leading them out on their investigation that night. John falls behind and by the time he catches up with the others, he’s apparently already missed the main event.

“Where were you?” Sherlock demands. There’s something wild in his eyes, like at the lab earlier.

“Morse code,” John attempts to explain, “I saw someone flashing a light, I think they were signalling-”

Sherlock just cuts him off, suddenly cold, “Don’t care.”

He turns and strides back into the woods. John has to hurry to keep up.

They’re back at the hotel, sitting by a campfire out front, when Sherlock explains, his voice low, “I was afraid, John.  _ Afraid _ .”

“Sherlock-” John attempts.

“Do you know what would have happened to me if I was  _ ever _ afraid? The weak get  _ scrapped _ . We’re not supposed to have emotions, to worry” - he looks up at John, the embers dancing in his pale blue eyes. He looks terrified. Suddenly, he shouts, flinging his arms in the air, dangerously close to the fire, “I’m not supposed to care! I can’t afford to lug around a slow, weak human!”

There’s a lot going on that John can’t understand, but he might have some idea. “Even when we’re at war, we still try to take care of the wounded.”

“Good for you,” Sherlock snaps. He gets up and stalks away without a word.

Of course, when there’s more investigating to be done, he doesn’t hesitate to text John and send him on his way. He even gets trapped in the lab with a horrible beast for his troubles.

Only after the mystery is solved does John remark, “What happened to me? In the lab. What was all that about?” Those were some of the most terrifying moments of his life, and that’s saying something, cowering in the lab, waiting for the beast to come, those bright red eyes that burned into the night.

Sherlock evades a little.

Finally, it dawns on him, “It was you! You locked me in that bloody lab!” He can hardly believe what he’s saying, but it all fits.

Sherlock doesn’t even have the decency to deny it. “I had to. It was an experiment.”

“Had to?” John demands, forcing himself to his feet. He’s livid, his anger growing by the second. “I was  _ terrified _ .”

“I knew what effect it had on a superior mind. I needed to try it on an average one,” Sherlock says, as though he’s done nothing wrong.

“Sure,” John says, his voice dripping venom. “At least now I know not to believe all that crap about you being worried.”

“Don’t you see?” Sherlock demands. “That’s why I had to do it. I can’t afford to worry about you.”

“Well you won’t have to,” John says. “I’m moving out.”

“John!” Sherlock protests.

But John is already walking away.

Somehow Sherlock gets back to Baker Street first. He’s lounging in the sitting room when John arrives. It takes all the resolve John has to walk by without a word, but it’s easier than he expects. He’s tired and frustrated and  _ finally _ ready to be done.

But before John can reach the stairs, of course, Sherlock says, “John.”

John doesn’t even turn.

He hears Sherlock moving behind him. Again, he calls out, “John.” He’s starting to sound a little petulant.

John doesn’t move.

“You’re not even going to look at me?” Sherlock mostly sounds annoyed, but underneath there’s something almost pleading. "I worry about you so much it frightens me. Caring is  _ dangerous _ ."

John turns on his heel to face Sherlock. "Then we're agreed. It's easier for both of us if I leave."

"No!" Sherlock exclaims. "I just need to get over it, that's all."

"No," John says, "I'm not sticking around to help you get over caring about me." He continues toward the stairs.

"What do you want me to do?" Sherlock demands.

"It doesn't matter to me," John says without stopping, though he knows he's taking his time.

"You'd rather be my weakness?" Sherlock asks, incredulous.

"It would only be fair," John says with a sardonic smile.

Sherlock hesitates, but to John's surprise, he finally says, "Fine. If that's what it takes. We'll just have to be more careful."

* * *

The papers have been buzzing about “Sherlock Holmes, Superhuman Detective.” The press gaggles have gotten bigger at every case they’ve solved. It’s not what John would call being careful, but there’s something inevitable about Sherlock’s meteoric rise. It would be exhilarating if it wasn’t painful watching Sherlock stumble through public appearances.

After the first disaster he exclaims in frustration, “We weren’t made to be in the limelight!”

And John believes him.

Of course, the press aren’t the only ones who have noticed. It’s only a matter of time before Moriarty makes an appearance, clearly desperate for the attention Sherlock has stumbled into. He steals the crown jewels, robs the Bank of England, and orchestrates a prison break, all within the span of a few minutes, and then lets himself get caught. The trial is a farce, not only for Sherlock’s refusal to stop correcting the lawyers on how to question him. And then the news gets out.

“Sherlock,” John says.

Sherlock ignores him, of course.

John knows better than to be discouraged. “Sherlock, you should see this,” he insists. “The news-”

Sherlock finally looks up, but his expression cuts John short. He looks  _ uncertain _ , almost frightened. Still he answers with his usual sharpness, as though he’s annoyed at being interrupted, “Yes?”

John doesn’t really know where to begin. Of course Sherlock’s already read it. He doesn’t even know what he was going to say if Sherlock hadn’t - “Did you really kill all those people,” isn’t really a conversation starter, and from Sherlock’s expression, the answer is pretty obvious.

Finally he settles for the rather lame, “I knew the Institute was a messed up place, but I didn’t realize it was that bad.”

Sherlock is still staring at him, looking like he expects John to yell.

“I mean, I know you didn’t do any of that willingly,” John clarifies, though he’s sure Sherlock will just snap at him for stating the obvious.

To his surprise, Sherlock says grimly, “Following orders isn’t much of an excuse.”

“Sherlock, you said they kept you  _ drugged _ ,” John exclaims. “They raised you from  _ birth _ to… to do their dirty work. It’s a miracle you’ve turned out as well as you have.”

Apparently that’s not the response Sherlock expected. “How do you know I’m not still assassinating people and stealing information?” he asks warily. “How do you know I’m not toying with the police, killing people and then leading them on a wild chase?”

John just gives him a mystified look.

“That’s what people will think. They’ve launched an investigation already,” Sherlock says.

John shakes his head. “You’re not that good at acting. No one is.”

“You read the article, we were created for infiltration,” Sherlock insists.

John gives him another look, this one more exasperated. “You’d last a day, tops, before you blew your own cover trying to be clever.”

“Maybe that’s what I want you to think,” Sherlock snaps.

“Is it?” John asks, incredulous. He knows Sherlock’s ego better than that.

“Maybe,” Sherlock says, but it’s clearly just for the sake of argument.

“No,” John says a little fondly, “If you were trying to fool anyone you’d be nicer and less of a showoff.” After a pause John asks, “Have you been undercover for any longer than a day?”

“No more than a month, and that’s because  _ someone _ got the information wrong,” Sherlock answers without thinking - John can guess who that “someone” is. “I was made for shorter missions.”

John nods. That makes sense. “It must be Moriarty,” he remarks. “I didn’t realize it then, but it’s like how he was taunting you about your first mission at the pool.” According to the article, the murder of that kid was Sherlock’s first assassination, and that makes sense, with how Sherlock clammed up about it.

For the first time, Sherlock is looking at John like he’s the one that’s gotten lost in the conversation and is trying to catch up. “You don’t mind then? That I’ve killed all of those people?”

John isn’t entirely sure how to respond. Eventually, he says, “Of course, I’d rather you hadn’t, but you clearly weren’t... made for entertaining at birthday parties. You’re still  _ you _ .”

Sherlock stares at John, his eyes a little wide in surprise - John isn’t quite willing to call it wonder. Abruptly, he looks away in embarrassment and says quietly, “Thank you. That means a lot to me.”

John gives him an awkward pat on the arm, not entirely sure what to do. He wants to hold Sherlock in his arms, but that’s not going to happen.

It takes longer than John expects for Sherlock to meet his eyes again. When he does, it’s with surprisingly quiet determination. He starts speaking fast, even more so than usual when making rapidfire deductions, almost like if he stops for breath he won’t be able to get himself to continue, “From when we first met, whenever you look at me your eyes are dilated, and I felt your elevated heart rate in your hand just now. I assumed it was just a mere infatuation, primarily a physical attraction” - he leans in and sure enough, John feels his heart racing in his chest - “However I was clearly mistaken.”

John swallows reflexively. Sherlock’s face is just inches away from his now, and John isn’t quite sure where this is going. He can hope - his eyes are certainly dilated - but things never seem to go quite right with Sherlock.

“John,” Sherlock says - he can feel Sherlock’s breath tickling his cheeks - “Do I have to say it?”

John nods.

Sherlock takes his time. “Despite everything I was created to be, I find that I have inexplicably developed feelings for you.”

“Not worried about caring too much?” John has to ask.

“It’s too late,” Sherlock says.

And finally, with what feels like reckless abandon, though it’s the most premeditated thing he’s ever done, John leans in to kiss Sherlock on the lips. Contrary to John’s imagination, Sherlock is far from an expert kisser. He’s clumsy and tries to make up for it by being a little too forceful. But nothing can stop John from grinning like a maniac as they pull apart.

Sherlock, meanwhile, looks like his mind is whirring, trying to make deductions at an absurd pace. Finally, he acknowledges, his voice a little thick, “That was surprisingly enjoyable. Now I see why you were able to get so many girlfriends.”

John gives him a look, though his smile probably ruins the effect.

Still, Sherlock gets the point. “Not good?”

John nods.

“Would you still be amenable to trying again?”

Sherlock looks so hopeful that even if John wanted to he couldn’t say anything but, “Yes.”

Before he can lean in again, however, Sherlock says, “But entertaining at birthday parties, really John?”

“Do you want me to kiss you or not?”

Sherlock, always determined to have the last word, leans in and kisses John instead.

* * *

Unfortunately, their domestic bliss is short lived. They’re sitting on the couch, Sherlock sprawled across everything, including John, while John attempts to douse some of the flames of the recent revelations about Sherlock with his blog. Later, maybe he’ll announce their relationship to the world, but they have a bigger battle to fight right now, and neither of them is keen on the extra scrutiny.

Lestrade strides in, clearly in a hurry. He takes one glance at them and says, “Now? Now is the time you decided to shack up?”

Sherlock makes a noise of disgust at the suggestion, apparently oblivious to his compromising position.

John shoots him a look.

Sherlock waves it off, but corrects himself anyway, “Created not to have physical needs - get in the way. John and I are a couple now though.”

It’s surprisingly gratifying to see Sherlock looking so smug about having “wooed” him.

“I don’t know whether to give you my congratulations or consolations,” Lestrade says.

John just grins.

Before Lestrade can continue, Sherlock says, suddenly serious, “No.”

“What?” Lestrade asks. He glances at John, but this time John has just as much of an idea as the official detective.

“You want me to come down to the station and help with the inquiry. The answer is no,” Sherlock says.

Of course. John is torn between suggesting that maybe it would be better for Sherlock to cooperate, and trying to stand - which Sherlock is making rather difficult - to defend Sherlock, with his life if he has to.

“Sherlock,” Lestrade attempts, “If you cooperate, there’s a better chance of getting them to understand.”

“And be paraded in front of the Commissioner? The press gaggle? Treated like some sort of monster?” Sherlock shakes his head. “Got more important things on, sorry. Give the Commissioner my apologies.” He sounds surprisingly disappointed, or maybe just tired.

John knows it doesn’t sound right, but he has to ask, “Out of curiosity, why are you still trying to help?”

“I never told you?” Lestrade says, sounding a little surprised. “I was one of the officers that was sent to take down the Shelley Institute. That’s when I met Sherlock. He was even worse then than he is now, than he was when you came around, if you’ll believe it.”

“I’m surprised you’ve stuck around this long,” John says.

Sherlock glares at him, looking a little affronted.

John smiles back. “All more than worth it, of course.”

Sherlock’s smug smile returns and he melts back into John, pinning him even more thoroughly, if possible.

Lestrade can only chuckle and shake is head. “I never thought I’d see the day.” More seriously, he continues, “It’s a shame the circumstances. Sherlock, you’re sure you won’t come in? Give yourself a fighting chance?”

John can feel Sherlock tense up. Finally, he answers, “I have the  _ real _ danger to catch.”

* * *

John runs frantically down the street. He just needs to find Sherlock and then he’ll figure out what to do from there.

“Just a little farther,” Sherlock urges in his ear.

John’s arm aches from holding his phone up to his ear, but he can’t put it down.

And then John sees him, a mostly black silhouette standing on the edge of the roof. He’s too far away to quite meet Sherlock’s eyes.

“Just hold tight, I’ll be up there in a second!” John says.

He sees Sherlock shake his head. “I’m sorry, John, for all the lies.”

“What lies?” John asks.

“You saw the paper; I’m a monster. I murdered all those people and solved the cases just trying to impress you. To put on a show.”

“What are you saying?” John demands. “You knew you didn’t need to impress me.”

“But I wanted to,” Sherlock says. His voice starts to crack. “I guess this is goodbye. John, I love you.”

And then the line goes dead.

“Sherlock! Wait!” John shouts to no avail. “SHERLOCK!”

He tumbles over the edge and hits the concrete with a crack.


	2. Mary

At night, John dreams of the battlefield.

_ He runs down dark, abandoned city streets, though a heavy fog that stifles the dim orange light of intermittent streetlamps. Shadows shift on the edges of his vision. _

_ He’s too late! He runs as fast as he can, but he’s always too slow. He always remains just out of reach. _

_ “John!” _

_ He tries to run faster, tries to catch up. _

_ “John!” _

_ The light of day is blinding. A familiar figure, a silhouette, all in black, stands on the edge of a precipice. _

_ He tires to shout, to scream, but his voice won’t come out. _

_ The figure falls and hits the ground with a crack. _

\--

John jolts into awareness. His heart is racing and he’s breathing much too fast. His shoulder burns. It’s just a nightmare, but he knows it’s more than that.

He hauls himself out of bed, half wondering why he bothers. Mycroft is all over the news, standing trial for all the crimes committed at the Shelley Institute. The proceedings drag on. John knows he should be there, but can’t bring himself to go. He hasn’t touched his blog since his final defense of Sherlock.

He still can’t believe Sherlock is dead. He was supposed to be indestructible. But he’s gone, and John is left to pick up the pieces. He’s angry, and lost, and so very frustrated. He’s out of milk, so he supposes he’ll go take out some of that frustration on the machine at the grocery store.

“Do you need some help?” a woman asks.

At first, John assumes she’s an employee. “I’m fine,” he insists, clearly frustrated - and she is right, he does need help.

“Of course, Dr. Watson,” she says, with a bit of a teasing lilt to her voice.

It’s not so unusual for strangers to know his name. He’s the man who followed Sherlock Holmes around, after all. But there’s something familiar about her voice that makes him glance up at her. She’s a handsome woman, with a nice smile and short blond hair that gives her a very practical look, not that he’s looking for a date. He recognizes her from somewhere, though he can’t place it.

He hesitates. “You can get it to work?”

“Do you want me to try?” she asks. She sounds confident, but she’s nice about it, which is a little refreshing - John doesn’t think he could handle someone else like Sherlock.

“Go ahead,” he says, with a resigned gesture at the machine.

Of course, it does everything she asks it, and he’s done in a minute flat. They both pick up their bags and head for the door.

“Thank you,” John says, a little reluctantly.

“Not all,” she says. She holds out a hand for him to shake, “I’m Mary Morstan, I’m a nurse at the clinic.”

“Oh,” John says. That’s where he knows her from. Now he feels like a bit of a dolt. “Sorry.”

Mary just smiles. “You’re always so busy, and we rotate around a lot. It’s nice to properly meet you, Dr. Watson.”

He waves it off. “John. You can call me John.”

“Nice to meet you, John,” she says, and again there’s something teasing about her tone, but he gets that a lot from skeptical strangers.

“Nice to meet you too,” he says, before they head off in opposite directions.

It just takes him a moment for him to realize he has the wrong bag. He turns around and hurries after her.

“Excuse me! Mary!” He calls out.

She turns around, looking a little bemused.

“I think we must have accidentally swapped bags, back at the store,” he explains, more than a little awkward. He swears he must have known how to talk to people once, but that feels like a long time ago.

“Oh,” she says with an easy smile, “Sorry about that. I must have been distracted.”

“It’s alright,” he insists, “It was my fault.”

They swap bags and he’s about to head back on his way when she remarks, “Maybe it’s not so bad that our bags got mixed up. Want to get coffee sometime?”

He’s not really interested in dating right now, and he’s had more than his share of weird interactions with strangers after everything that happened, but she isn’t really a stranger, and he could probably get out more, not just going to the clinic.

“Fine,” he says. Only belatedly does he realize how that sounds and attempts to correct himself, “Yes, sure. That sounds fine.”

She just smiles back at him, as though his behavior is perfectly normal. John can’t help but wonder what she wants from him.

“Would tomorrow morning be too soon?” she asks.

“No,” John says. “I don’t have other plans.”

“Then it’s a date. See you tomorrow, John,” she says, and continues on her way with a little wave.

* * *

Coffee with Mary quickly becomes a routine. She’s surprisingly easy to get along with - it probably doesn’t hurt that the last person John interacted with regularly was Sherlock. But she doesn’t pry or react when he doesn’t know what to say. Best of all, she never asks about Sherlock. She isn’t even interested when they find out that Mycroft and all the others were acquitted. It’s all astoundingly normal; dates at coffee shops and nice restaurants instead of crime scenes, and cozy nights in. It’s the sort of life John forgot he could ever have. It’s slow, and a little dull, but maybe that’s better than danger.

He knows it’s a little fast, maybe he’s still a little afraid she’ll just up and vanish, but he wants to make it official, make it permanent, as much as he can. He loves her, and he wants things to stay this way.

John has it all planned out, he’s bought a ring, they’re out for dinner at a nice restaurant. She’s probably figured it out already, but he’s still nervous as he tries to ask, “If you’ll have me, Mary...I mean...Could you see your way to - ?”

But he’s stopped short of asking by the arrival of an annoying waiter who somehow can’t tell that it isn’t the time. He looks up at the waiter, ready to tell him to shove off, politely, but firmly. He meets the man’s eyes and freezes. His bright pale blue eyes look desperate, like a man on the brink of death who  _ will _ pull through with sheer determination.

John feels lightheaded. For an instant he’s worried he’s going to faint. But he doesn’t.

He stands. In his mind’s eye he can see the man in front of him standing on the edge of a roof high above, see his body crumpled on the ground below. He wonders if he’s hallucinating, because all of a sudden the reminder of Sherlock’s death is just as painful as it was two years ago.

_ Two years _ he’s waited and wondered and wished. Nothing.

And now. Only now.

He grabs Sherlock by the collar, barely aware of what he’s doing, slams him against the wall. He’s  _ so _ angry. His whole body is shaking.

Mary has to drag him away.

Only when he’s had a little while to sit down and calm down - somewhat - does he ask, “ _ Why? _ ”

Sherlock hesitates. “Jim had snipers trained on you and Mrs. Hudson, and even Lestrade. If I didn’t jump they would have killed you. But he miscalculated; a fall like that isn’t enough to kill one of us, just do a bit of damage. And then I had to get rid of them before they realized I was back and carried it out, and Mycroft didn’t want me showing up and ruining the trial, and-”

John has heard enough. “Just one word, Sherlock. That’s all I would have needed! One word to let me know you were alive.” He’s almost pleading, as though his words could change the past, and at the same time furious because they can’t, because the damage is already done.

“I’ve nearly been in touch so many times…” Sherlock says. “But I was worried you might - you know - say something indiscreet-”

“No,” John says, his voice is getting louder, but he doesn’t care. “You trusted Molly,  _ Mycroft _ , and a hundred tramps, but not me? You thought  _ I _ might say something?”

“They were necessary,” Sherlock attempts to explain.

“And I wasn’t?” John nearly shouts.

Sherlock forces out the words, even though he knows they won’t help his case. “Of course you were. You had to tell the world I was dead.”

John sees Sherlock’s logic - he was doing a perfectly good job with that without knowing Sherlock was alive, telling him could have ruined the show. John takes another swing at Sherlock without thinking. In that moment, he wants nothing more than for Sherlock to feel all the pain he did, maybe then they’ll be even.

He only gets in a single blow, before Mary restrains him again. For an instant he’s angry at her too, for stopping him, but that quickly cools his head a little. She lets go, and he turns and leaves to hail a cab without a word - he can’t trust himself to look at Sherlock again.

Afterward, when they’re back home, John demands, “You  _ like _ him?” He feels more confused than betrayed, but both feelings are there.

“He cares about you,” Mary explains.

“Got a funny way of showing it,” John retorts.

She shrugs. “He seems to be doing pretty well for someone created by a secret lab. You probably give his life a bit of normalcy.”

* * *

John still can’t bring himself to make up with Sherlock. Whatever Mary may think, if Sherlock really cared, he wouldn’t have put John through all of that. He thought he had finally earned Sherlock’s trust, but clearly it was all a lie and John is done being lied to. It’s hard and painful - he’s wanted Sherlock to come back so badly for years now, and now that it’s happened, he can’t even enjoy it - but he has Mary now, and that should be enough.

Only after Sherlock rescues him from being burned alive on Guy Fawkes night - Mary is there too, but he knows it was Sherlock that saved him - does John consider forgiving him. All John knows is that drugged and smelling of smoke, there’s no one he could have possibly been happier to see.

So, when he’s no longer tranquilized, John pays a visit to Baker Street. The flat is the same as it always was; Mrs. Hudson kept it like a museum while Sherlock was gone - he can only wonder if she knew too.

Sherlock greets John with a wide smile, as though there’s no one else he would rather see. It would be endearing, if the past two years hadn’t happened.

Sherlock’s face falls as he sees John’s expression. “Sorry. Sorry again,” he says, and he looks genuine.

John hesitates. “Thank you - for saving me,” he says reluctantly.

“I would be lost without my blogger,” Sherlock says, a little sheepish. At least he’s aware of the irony.

Still wary, John agrees to follow Sherlock on his investigation. It takes them down into an unopened underground line that runs directly beneath the Palace of Westminster, where Parliament is in session. There’s a bomb primed to go off, and not enough time left to fetch the bomb squad.

And Sherlock says, “What makes you think I can stop it?”

They’re going to die, all because the damn institute that made a superhuman assassin didn’t bother to train him to diffuse a bomb. It’s absurd, just as absurd as anything else when Sherlock is around, but this time they’re both going to die.

“I can’t do it,” Sherlock says. “Forgive me, John. For all the hurt I caused you.”

John can’t believe it, but as the timer keeps counting down, it looks like Sherlock really can’t do anything, and he’s pleading.

John won’t let them die like this. “I forgive you,” he says, at last. They embrace as the timer reaches zero.

John waits for the impact, but it never comes.

He pulls away and finds Sherlock laughing and John wants to laugh too, the euphoria of not being dead bubbles up in his chest. But it quickly becomes apparent why Sherlock is laughing. It was all a trick. A lie. To get John to forgive him.

“Fine,” John says bitterly.

He’s tired of grieving and being angry and beneath all of the manipulation and lies, Sherlock is clearly desperate to get John to forgive him. Sherlock is back, and maybe that’s enough.

* * *

Sherlock and Mary get along surprisingly well. She doesn’t ask about the assassinations and doesn’t bat an eye at the things he says.

“He’s smart, he’ll figure people out eventually,” Mary explains after a particularly rough day. Sometimes it seems like she understands Sherlock better than John ever will.

In turn, Sherlock is actually helpful with planning the wedding. He treats it like a case in and of itself, orchestrating everything to some ends, though John can’t fathom what. And Mary is happy for the two of them to go running off solving mysteries just to get them out of her hair for a little while. She even helps out a bit.

The closest John has gotten to Sherlock since his return is that hug when John thought they were both going to die, and as far as John is concerned, it doesn’t count. Anyway, he still doesn’t entirely trust Sherlock again, maybe he never will. But sometimes their eyes meet and John’s heart rate picks up and he remembers just how much better Sherlock had gotten at kissing, even after such a short time. Nothing happens, of course. They both blink and then the moment is gone, and they go back to whatever they were doing before. But things are going so well, John is starting to wonder if maybe he couldn’t have both Mary and Sherlock.

After the wedding, per his duty as the best man, Sherlock approaches Mary and asks with surprising gallantry, “May I have this dance?”

She stifles a laugh and accepts his hand.

John watches them as the swirl across the dance floor. They make a much more handsome couple than John does with either of them, but somehow, they both love him.

When the dance is done, they walk back over to John, Mary still laughing at something Sherlock said or did. To both of their surprise, Mary takes Sherlock’s hand and passes it off to John.

“Sherlock isn’t here for me,” Mary explains with a gesture toward the dance floor.

John glances at Mary to confirm that this is really what she wants, and then up at Sherlock, who is watching John expectantly.

John nods.

Sherlock remarks, “It’s a lucky best man who gets to dance with both the bride and the groom.”

“Mary’s a much better dancer” - John feels it’s only fair to warn him.

“I’m sure you’ll do fine,” Sherlock says with a cocky confidence that really means  _ he’ll _ do fine. “Just follow my lead.”

John lets Sherlock guide him onto the dance floor. He glances back at Mary, watching them with undisguised glee. His attention quickly turns back to Sherlock as he feels a surprisingly gentle hand settle on his hip.

John hasn’t done much dancing, and he only learned to lead for the wedding, but Mary knew what she was doing, so she was the one keeping track of their feet and moving them in the right direction anyway. In some ways it’s easier not pretending to lead, though it does feel a little strange dancing with someone significantly taller than him.

“ _ Relax _ ,” Sherlock whispers in his ear, sending shivers down John’s spine - which is not at all appropriate at his wedding to Mary, but exhilarating nonetheless.

It’s easy for Sherlock to say, as he deftly maneuvers them across the dance floor. John is mostly worrying about not stepping on his feet, but he does have time to appreciate the proximity to Sherlock’s slender frame. Ever so often he glances up to meet his eyes, and finds Sherlock watching him with a sort of bemused fondness.

By the time Sherlock returns him to Mary, he’s flushed and a little breathless, not just from the exercise - though dancing is surprisingly hard work. She just puts an arm around John’s waist and laughs.

* * *

Sherlock gets shot. It’s not entirely clear how it happens, but he’s touch and go for a while. It hit a major artery in his shoulder and according to the surgeon, he only barely pulled through. He’s already awake coming out of the operating room - apparently something about his superhuman physiology that makes the anesthetic wear of quickly.

John is there of course. Sherlock is clearly exhausted - he must be - but at the sight of John he tries to prop himself up on his arm and exclaims in a state of considerable excitement, “Mary-”

Whatever he was going to say abruptly dies on his lips. He falls back onto the bed, where the doctors and nurses want him to be.

Instead he says, “John,” and reaches out for him.

John stays there, holding Sherlock’s hand until Mary arrives. He spends a lot of time in the hospital room over the next week, keeping Sherlock company, preventing him from bothering the nurses too badly. Mary joins him less than he expects, but it is nice of her to give them space, especially since Sherlock takes being in the hospital not quite as badly as John expected, but not well either. He treats John well enough, and is strangely subdued, but he’s a right terror to just about everyone else.

Of course, Sherlock can’t just wait to be discharged like a normal person. After only a week of an already accelerated recovery, he vanishes from the hospital. Everyone they know is out looking for him, but somehow, John gets there first. Sherlock is pretty much dead on his feet, carrying around an IV drip for good measure.

“Hear me out,” Sherlock pleads. He really does look weak.

“You know who shot you?” John confirms.

Sherlock nods. “I need your help.”

There’s something in his expression that stops John from arguing. He lets Sherlock position him in a wheelchair in the shadows with the IV drip by his side - the idea behind the disguise is clear. There’s a sinking feeling in John’s gut that’s only cemented when, once he’s ready, Sherlock leans down and kisses him on the cheek, before taking his place outside.

John waits with bated breath. He can hear someone slow and cautious open and close the door, and walk inside. They step into the light.

It's Mary -  _ his _ Mary. But not how he knows her. There's a look in her eyes, a desperation and a willingness to survive, no matter what.

"Sherlock, what's going on here?" she asks warily.

It’s all strange and surreal, but somehow the sound of her voice jars John back into the present. He doesn’t know what Sherlock has planned, but it was his choice to bring John into it, and he can’t just sit by in silence. No matter what’s going on, Mary is still his wife.

He stands and finds himself staring down the barrel of a gun. He shouldn’t be surprised, but it gives him a jolt. This isn’t the woman he knows and loves.

He slowly raises his hands in the air. “Mary,” he says, slowly, carefully. It’s almost a question.

She lowers the gun, her eyes wide. “John,” she says. She looks terrified, even though she’s the one with the weapon.

Sherlock steps in and flicks on the light, so they can see each other clearly. He’s probably not happy, but John isn’t looking at him right now.

“Or should I call you M-M? That’s your designation, isn’t it?” John asks, surprising himself with the venom in his voice.

“R-M,” she corrects him reflexively, glancing between John and Sherlock like a caged animal.

“Is everyone I know from the bloody Institute?” John demands.

“Pretty much,” Sherlock quips back.

John shoots him a glare. “How long did you know?”

“Only since she shot me,” Sherlock says offhand. “Though in her defense, she wasn’t aiming to kill or I’d be dead now.”

John forces himself to take a deep, steadying breaths. One thing at a time. It doesn’t stop the shaking, though.

He turns back on Mary. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“How could I? John, you have to understand” - she’s pleading.

“Understand what? That you lied to me? That you married me and I don’t even know you?” He’s angry, of course, but more than that he’s sad and frustrated.

She doesn’t have an excuse.

“If you hadn’t heard, I’m kind of famous for being in love with Sherlock Holmes. And you’ve seen what the news had to say about him,” John says.

“That’s why I found you,” she explains, blank and defeated. “You were my best chance at having a normal life despite everything I’ve done.”

“Of course” - nothing in John’s life could just be a coincidence. “Then if you knew all that, why didn’t you just tell me?” He emphasizes his words with a vehement gesture.

To his surprise, she takes out a flash drive and hands it to him. “Everything about who I was is on there. If you love me, don’t read it in front of me because you won’t love me when you’ve finished, and I don’t want to see that happen.”

“You know I read the paper,” he exclaims. “So, I have a pretty good idea of what’s on there already.” He hesitates. “And I’ve killed some people too, you know. I’m not proud of it, but you’re not the only ones.” He glances between Sherlock and Mary, hoping that maybe Sherlock will be able to talk some sense into her if he can’t.

She just shakes her head.

John pockets the flashdrive - he’ll worry about that later. “So, why did you shoot Sherlock? I thought the two of you got along, or did you have some rivalry at the Institute I didn’t know about?”

“Charles Augustus Magnussen,” Sherlock says by way of explanation.

* * *

John stares at the flashdrive in his hands. It just looks like a normal flash drive, but on it is all of Mary’s past. He doesn’t really want to look through it, what the papers said about Sherlock was bad enough. He knows what they were doing at the Institute, he doubts anything on there will surprise him. What bothers him is that Mary doesn’t want him to see it. That she was so determined to keep it from him she even gave in to blackmail.

He can feel her watching him, wary. She has that look in her eyes again, that desperation. Sherlock always looks like that, but on Mary, it means she’s afraid of him.

That’s what he  _ hates _ about it. His own wife doesn’t trust him. That’s why he’s even considering looking through the files. So that there are no more secrets between them.

But that’s not fair, is it? If she doesn’t want him to know, it would be wrong to take it from her.

He finally looks up at her, meets her wild eyes. It hurts every time she looks at him like that. He just wants her to understand, but this is his chance to make things work.

“Mary,” he says at last.

She flinches as though he hit her.

He sighs in frustration. Finally he says, “I’m not going to look if you don’t want me to. I want you to trust me. But fine. If you say your past is none of my business, then so be it. Do you at least trust me with who you are now?”

“You still want me?” she asks.

“Of course!” he exclaims, more angrily than he intended. “I love you, Mary. Can’t that be enough?” He can only hope that it is.

She nods, he can see tears welling up in her eyes. She hugs him so tightly he can barely breathe - he can feel the enhanced strength.

“I’m sorry, John. Sorry I’m not someone better,” she says through her tears.

“Apparently I have a thing for superhuman assassins,” he says with a shrug.

It doesn’t seem to help. He just lets her cry into his arms, rubbing circles into her back, feeling lost. He wishes she would trust him, but he loves her and that should be enough.

When she looks back up at him, her eyes are puffy and red, but she looks like herself once more.

“You don’t look like you’re made by the Institute,” he remarks.

She glares at him. “We were all made to look like normal humans,” she reluctantly explains.

“That’s not what I meant.” John tries again, “There’s a look, an intensity.” He hesitates. “It reminds me of a lot of soldiers I treated. Some just gave up, but there were some, even on the brink of death, that were still fighting to survive, like they could make it through just on sheer determination, and a lot more of them made it.”

Mary nods in understanding.

“Sherlock always looks like that,” John continues, “Mycroft too - most of them. I guess Moriarty could hide it a little, but you usually just look like a normal person. Even now that I know, I can’t see it most of the time.”

She gives him a teary-eyed smile. “Thank you, John,” she says, and burries back into his chest.

He holds on to her for dear life.

* * *

“Ready to save Mary?” Sherlock asks as he shrugs on his coat.

John steels himself and nods. He has his gun and is ready for anything - or at least as ready as he’ll ever be.

They don’t have long before Mycroft wakes up and discovers his laptop is missing. Sherlock and John arrive at Magnussen’s estate already short on time. His staff show them in. John and Sherlock exchange a glance - this man doesn’t have anyone normal working for him, that’s for sure.

As they step into his blankly modern study, they see Magnussen rewatching a clip of Sherlock and Mary rescuing John from the burn pile, projected on the wall. The implication - and threat - is clear.

“S-H,” he says with a small gloating smile as he pauses the video.

He looks strikingly normal, like a stern middle aged man of no particular significance. But there’s something cold about his gaze, not the desperation of Sherlock, but still inhuman - something more removed.

He turns to John - “And Dr. Watson, the man who has brought two of my projects to their knees. I would say I was impressed, but clearly there was a flaw in their design that will have to be worked out in the next generation.”

“What do you want with them?” John demands.

“They’re  _ mine _ . I’m just getting them back.” Magnussen turns John’s question back on him, “What do  _ you _ want with them? You know what they can do, how many people they’ve killed. If you keep playing with fire, you’re bound to get  _ burned _ .” His eyes flicker to the frozen image of the bonfire on the wall.

“I’m here to make an exchange,” Sherlock declares, holding up the computer. “All of Mycroft’s information, the files he stole from the Institute,  _ everything _ , for Mary.”

Magnussen just laughs. “I know a trap when I see one, S-H. Don’t forget who designed you. That GPS will bring M-H and the fools that listen to him straight to my home, and then they’ll have an excuse to search for all the files I have holed up and find out who I really am. But the joke’s on you.”

“The fact you know it’s going to happen, won’t stop it,” Sherlock says, but despite his best effort, he sounds uncertain

“Then why am I smiling?” Magnussen asks, and he is still smiling, a smug little smile. “You think I would create an army of superhumans and not give myself an upgrade? All of the information from the Institute, all of those precious files, they’re all in here.” He taps his forehead.

“You made yourself into a supergenius?” John asks, a little dubious.

“Cybernetic implants,” Magnussen explains, as though he’s disappointed, but not surprised that he’s so slow. “I’m already a genius.”

In the back of John’s mind, a lot of things about Sherlock are making a lot more sense having met his creator.

“Either you get back to work, starting with covering up this whole incident,” Magnussen continues, “Or we go outside and meet M-H and you get arrested for trying to sell state secrets to me. Maybe I’ll even get M-H in the bargain.” He looks over at John with a cruel grin. “It should be obvious which option R-M took.”

John clenches his fists and wills himself not to do anything stupid.

Sherlock glances over at John. There’s a reckless glint in his eyes that suggests that Sherlock is going to be the one to do something stupid, as long as John is with him. John nods. It’s about time for something stupid and reckless.

Sherlock raises John’s gun. “Sorry, neither.” He pulls the trigger, there’s a loud bang, and Magnussen crumples to the ground.

Sherlock quickly cleans up the crime scene, and then they run out of the house and off the property as fast as they can.

* * *

There is a minimal investigation into the murder of Charles Augustus Magnussen. When the autopsy discovers a cybernetic implant in his brain full of information about the Shelley Institute, it’s assumed that any number of people could have killed him, and the case is quietly dropped. The data on the implant is safely tucked away by Mycroft Holmes, and life returns to normal.

John and Mary are doing better. It still stings a little that she won’t trust him with her past and she hasn’t mentioned what she was doing for Magnussen, but it doesn’t matter. He’s dead now and it’s all fine. Life goes on. They love each other and that’s what matters.

And then, with no warning, Mary is gone. She leaves a message explaining… some things. There’s danger and she doesn’t trust John to handle it with her, so she’s run off on her own. John does the only thing he can do under the circumstances - goes to Sherlock.

Of course, he already knows more than John does about the situation. “One of Mary’s old squadmates, Y-M,” he explains. “He thinks she betrayed them.”

“And when were you thinking of mentioning it to me?” John demands. “Oh, by the way, there’s a superhuman assassin after your wife, just so you know. Or would you have waited to let me figure it out for myself?”

“Don’t be silly, John,” Sherlock says, “I wouldn’t expect you to figure it out.”

John glares. “Not helping.”

“Right.” Sherlock nods. He looks a little apologetic, and it’s the best John is going to get at the moment. “There was something strange about him,” Sherlock remarks. “Same with Magnussen.”

John has no idea where this could possibly be going.

“No one who worked at the Institute saw us as human - you heard him, we were his ‘projects.’ If one of us disobeyed, we’d just be taken down and reprogrammed, there was none of this bargaining,” Sherlock explains. “We just did what we were told or else.”

“Maybe they don’t have the resources anymore, having been taken down and all,” John suggests.

Sherlock shakes his head. “Wouldn’t change how they think, not that drastically.”

“And what does this have to do with Y-M?” John asks.

“Too single minded,” Sherlock says. Of course he doesn’t bother to explain the significance of any of it, but if it’s not essential to finding Mary, John doesn’t really care right now.

Sherlock apparently already planted a tracking device on her - again, why doesn’t anyone tell John anything? - so it’s easy enough to trace her to Morocco.

“You could have just told me,” John exclaims when they’ve cornered her. “We could have, you know, helped!”

Mary just stands there and takes it, looking defeated. “I didn’t know what else to do.”

“Mary, please,  _ trust me _ ,” John pleads. Because if she can’t trust him, then there’s no way he can trust her.

To his surprise, Sherlock speaks up, “We weren’t made to trust people, John.”

“Fine,” John says with a sigh, not looking away from Mary. It’s a troubling sign when Sherlock Holmes is the voice of reason. “At least let us help.”

Finally she gives a hesitant nod.

So they return to London and everything is back to normal for a little while longer, but John can feel that it’s too good to last.

It’s not long before Mary gets shot. Fatally. She jumped in front of a bullet meant for Sherlock and now she’s dead.

John clings to her, begging her to pull through, but it’s too late.

“Thank you… for letting me be human,” is the last thing she ever says.

Eventually they drag her away and familiar hands usher him into a taxi. The world out the window seems dull and grey. Mary is  _ gone _ . He can’t even process it. His whole world turned upside down again.

They stop. He climbs up the stairs in a daze. Hushed voices express their concern, but he doesn’t process the words.

And then he freezes, looking in on a familiar room, cluttered with things that shouldn’t even be in a house - Sherlock took him back to Baker Street.

“No,” he says aloud. His voice rises and gains steam as he speaks; “No. I’m done with all the lies and manipulation. She’s gone and I didn’t even really know her. She just lied and lied and lied. What was I supposed to do?”

“John,” Sherlock attempts, a hand on his shoulder.

John knocks it away and turns on Sherlock. “And you!” He nearly shouts. “For two years you let me think you were dead! Is that what you’re playing at now? Is Mary just pretending, and then she’ll show up again when she’s had her fill? Did you help her?”

“John,” Sherlock tries again, but he knows better than to reach out.

“No, I’m done! This ‘human pet’ is done!” John turns and stalks down the stairs. He can hear Sherlock yelling after him, but he doesn’t give him the pleasure of a response.

* * *

The days fade into dreary weeks. He goes through the motions of a dull, ordinary routine. The texts from Sherlock eventually stop coming as John makes it clear he won’t respond. John supposes it’s a lot like going cold turkey on an addiction, or getting out of an abusive relationship. It’s hard and hurts like hell right now, but it’ll be better for him in the long run. He won’t get the same highs, but his life will be better on the whole.

Greg drops by sometimes, which is nice of him. “Still not talking to Sherlock?” he asks.

John just shakes his head, ready for the conversation to move on.

“I know,” Greg says, “They weren’t made to be easy to get along with. I’m amazed you stuck around as long as you did.”

“You’ve known him longer than I have,” John protests.

“But not nearly as well.”

“I just can’t keep making the same mistake,” John says with a sigh. “Mary died and I barely even knew her. I don’t know what I could have done to get her to trust me, but nothing seemed to be enough.”

Greg nods in understanding. “It was the same with my wife. We just couldn’t trust each other. I’ll never know what I did wrong, but at least I wasn’t the only one to blame.”

It’s not easy, there are ups and downs, but somehow life seems to go on. Sometimes it feels like his determination is the only thing holding him together, but at least it seems to be enough.

There’s been no word from Sherlock for a while when Mrs. Hudson shows up out of the blue. “You need to see him, John. You need to help him.”

John shakes his head. “I can’t.”

“He needs you. He won’t listen to anyone else!” She insists. “Please, John, can you just take a look at him? As a doctor. I know you’d change your mind if you did.”

“I don’t want to change my mind,” John snaps. He takes a deep breath - he’d been doing so well. “I’m sorry Mrs. Hudson, there’s nothing I can do. If he needs to see a doctor, then take him to a doctor.”

“Now you listen, for once in your stupid life. I know Mary’s dead, and I know your heart is broken. But if Sherlock Holmes dies too, who will you have then? Because I’ll tell you something, John Watson, you won’t have me!” she shouts.

John is still reeling from the outburst as she goes back to the car and of course brings out Sherlock Holmes himself. He looks terrible. John feels a pang of regret, but he’s not John’s problem any more.

Before John can protest any more, there’s a call on his phone - a celebrity who’s apparently having a public feud with Sherlock, asking, “I was wondering if we were all still meeting today?”

“No,” John says. He can see what this is, Sherlock can’t get ahold of him the normal way, so he’s back to his old tricks. “I’m sorry, I’m afraid you’ve been given the wrong number.” He hangs up and turns to Mrs. Hudson. “He needs to go to the emergency room. There’s nothing I can do.”

And with that, John takes his leave.

He still feels queasy about the whole thing, but the way Sherlock arranged all of that is just another piece of evidence in an overwhelming case against him. John wishes Sherlock would learn, but it can’t be his problem, it just can’t. He’s not willing to go through it all again.

His eyes are still red and puffy when he hears his phone buzz. He wipes his eyes and glances at the screen.

It’s Sherlock, of course. “Danger, please come.”

John turns the screen back off on principal, but he can’t shake the message out of his head. Sherlock knows he doesn’t answer his texts any more, and John knows he’s on a case. It’s not too hard to put two and two together, that Sherlock is currently in danger. And if he’s wrong, well, he’s not planning on talking to Sherlock again anyway.

John rushes to the hospital as fast as he can and bursts into Sherlock’s room. There’s a man, bent over Sherlock, his hand over his nose and mouth, and John lunges. He knocks the man off his feet and slams him into the wall.

The police come rushing in after him and restrain the would-be murderer.

Meanwhile, John turns to Sherlock. He’s still lying in the hospital bed and he looks like he belongs there. His eyes are feverish as he grins up at John.

John stops himself from smiling back. “You could have just called the police,” he says.

“But that wouldn’t have been nearly as much fun,” Sherlock says.

John glares at him. “This is your idea of  _ fun _ ? Is that why you went after him, so I would barge in here and rescue you and we could go back to playing cops and robbers.”

John isn’t quite serious, but then he sees Sherlock’s sheepish expression.

“My God,” John says, rubbing his face with his hand as he tries to process what just happened. “No,” he says at last. His voice rises as he speaks. “I’m not doing this. Next time you’d better call the police because I’m not playing your games any more.”

Sherlock tries to interrupt, but John has no intention of letting him get a word in.

“I know you were created to lie and steal and cheat, that you were manipulated and used your whole life, but this is the real world, and you can’t do that anymore.  _ I _ won’t live like that. I’m done Sherlock, I mean it.”

* * *

John is at home, ostensibly watching the telly, but nothing manages to hold his attention. His phone buzzes. It’s probably Sherlock, but he should know better than to try to contact John by now.

He glances at it. It’s a video from a number he doesn’t recognize. “Watch this,” the message says.

It’s probably just spam, but his curiosity gets the best of him. It looks like a clip out of a horror movie. A young woman with long matted black hair, wearing a hospital gown, is standing in an empty white room.

The next thing John knows, he’s stradling Sherlock’s torso, a razor in his hand, centimeters from Sherlock’s throat.

John nearly drops the razor in shock and stumbles backward, off of Sherlock. His body can’t decide if he’s frightened or aroused, but  _ he _ ’s definitely frightened. He’s at 221B Baker Street, but he doesn’t remember getting there. Probably drugged, but even drugged, was he really so angry… It feels like a trick, Sherlock’s doing, but even he wouldn’t do something like this - right?

Sherlock is still on the ground, propped up on his elbows, watching John warily.

“What’s going on?” John demands, brandishing the razor for good measure.

Sherlock slowly gets to his feet, his hands raised where John can see them. “John?” he asks tentatively, as though John could lash out at any moment - which apparently he already had.

“What am I doing here?” John doesn’t let Sherlock get any closer.

Sherlock hesitates. “That’s a long story…”

John glares at him.

“It wasn’t me,” Sherlock insists. There’s a pleading look in his eyes.

John nods for him to continue.

“It was E-H,” Sherlock explains at last. “She was even more of a success than the rest of us. She had a special ability, the scientists called it ‘reprogramming.’ It was mind control. She could make anyone do anything. They tried to use her to control us, but she was too much for them to handle.”

“So she - E-H - ‘reprogrammed’ me to kill you?” John’s mind reels in disgust at the very thought of his body not being his own, like a marionette.

Sherlock shakes his head. “If she wanted me dead, I would be. That was just a threat.”

An effective one, as far as John is concerned. Now that the tangible danger his gone, he feels himself shaking like a leaf. He puts down the razor and slumps into a chair, as little as he wants to be at Sherlock’s mercy. To his credit, Sherlock goes and grabs a blanket to put over John’s shoulders - “for shock.”

“She controlled Magnussen and Y-M too,” Sherlock says, possibly as a peace offering, or to preempt John’s ire when he figures it out for himself - at least he’s learning.

John nods. It makes sense. “Anything else you’ve neglected to tell me?” he asks warily.

“You have to interact with her to be under her control, so we should be alright for now,” Sherlock says. “She seems to be targeting others from the Institute, trying to get power over us, but I’m not sure why. I was trying to find her before I got distracted” - he shoots John a sheepish look - “But maybe Mycroft has made some progress.” He hesitates. When he continues, his demeanor has become cold and withdrawn. “I’ll let you know when it’s been resolved. In the meantime, don’t talk to anyone, if you can avoid it.”

“No,” John says, forcing himself to his feet. “She took over  _ my _ body. This is my business too.”

“There’ll be danger,” Sherlock cautions, but there’s something hopeful in his tone.

“I’m not coming for you,” John says. “I’ll only believe she’s gone if I see it for myself.”

Sherlock nods and leads the way out the door.

* * *

E-H is holed up in a large complex on a small island surrounded by sheer cliffs constantly pounded by rough waves. From the outside, the complex looks like a prison, with high walls and guard towers. Sherlock looks like he’s at his most inhuman as they approach the entrance. There is no doubt that he will do  _ anything _ necessary to survive. It’s equal parts comforting and unnerving, but, as John reminds himself, he isn’t there as Sherlock’s friend. He’s just there to make sure the job gets done, and he doesn’t doubt that it will.

The guards let them in without a word. It’s obviously a trap, but they walk right in. The doors slide shut behind them with a metallic clang. Outside, it looked like an outdated prison, but inside, it’s nearly futuristic. The walls are white and light just seems to radiate off of them. It starts, normally enough, with a security checkpoint. The guards aren’t very chatty, but maybe that’s for the best. They’re forced to surrender their weapons and phones, which is inconvenient, but not surprising.

Then, one of the guards leads them into the facility. The halls are eerily quiet, aside from the occasional guard or custodian. They pass by what look like high-tech classrooms and padded rooms full of exercise equipment behind transparent doors. They’re all empty, pristine, as though they’ve never been used. There are signs for a mess hall, but there’s no indication that anyone is at lunch.

“It’s not identical,” Sherlock remarks, “But it’s a good facsimile.”

Finally, they reach a block of what are essentially prison cells, all unoccupied. They’re motioned into a cell - apparently the guard has no intention of taking them directly to E-H. John reflexively glances over at Sherlock, reluctant to step inside.

Sherlock gives the barest nod.

“Excuse me,” John says, drawing the guard’s attention as Sherlock slips behind him.

In an instant the guard’s arms are restrained behind his back. “We’ll be taking that.” Sherlock shoots John a grin.

John just shakes his head, but he can’t entirely hide his bemusement.

Sherlock pockets the guard’s gun and they go straight to E-H.

There are presumably cameras everywhere, but no guards come to stop them. Still, they move quickly. They don’t bother to check the cells, instead Sherlock leads them straight to another wing of the facility.

It’s an abrupt transition. They pass through a pair of double doors and all of a sudden they’re in a normal hallway, complete with a carpet and cream colored wallpaper and evenly spaced paintings. The doors even look like they’re made of wood. One of them is ajar.

“She’s expecting us,” Sherlock says.

They go in anyway. It’s an office, a large one, with windows looking out on the cloudy sky and a courtyard below. There are a few pictures on the walls between tall bookcases, which are mostly empty. In the center of the room is a wooden desk, at which sits a gaunt young woman with long, matted black hair. She’s wearing what looks like a hospital gown, as though she broke out of an asylum - which isn’t far from the truth. Her eyes are wild and desperate.

Sherlock immediately levels the gun at her.

“Drop it,” she snarls.

The gun clatters to the ground.

“That’s better,” she says, her voice suddenly normal, if still harsh. “If you don’t prove your worth, you will be scrapped.”

John glances over at Sherlock. He’s staring at her, as though transfixed. John can see the tension in his posture. He doesn’t know what he could do to help, or even if he wants to. But he can think about all of that later. Right now, all they need to do is get out alive.

“Show me what you can do,” she says. Her eyes flicker between Sherlock and John.

“No,” Sherlock says. “I refuse.”

The next thing John knows his arms are locked behind his back. He lets out a shout of surprise.

“Sorry,” Sherlock breathes from behind him.

John can guess what happened.

Sherlock lets John’s arms go and turns to E-H. “You’re obviously trying to recreate the Institute, but it’s incomplete and empty. You could capture me with a word, but you haven’t. Why?”

“I don’t have to,” she says.

“No,” Sherlock says, “You don’t want to. Maybe you’re afraid to.”

John can’t believe it. “Could you not taunt the person with  _ mind-control _ powers?”

Sherlock waves him off. “Not now, I’m on to something.”

“I don’t have time for uncooperative projects. Take them away,” she says.

John only vaguely remembers being walked through the halls, back to the cell block, and put inside. Thankfully, they’re both put in the same cell.

Sherlock is watching him intently as he comes to. There’s a piercing intensity to his gaze and John isn’t thrilled about the scrutiny.

“So this is your plan?” John asks. “Wait around until Mycroft shows up to rescue us?”

Sherlock shakes his head. He’s smiling like he’s solved a case. “E-H isn’t done with us yet. She’s recreated the whole Institute, but hasn’t bothered to fill it, just threatened us a bit. She’s taken over the asylum, but is still afraid to use her abilities. Instead, she’s hiding behind the voice of one of the guards - probably one she interacted with a lot - and toying with us. It’s obvious isn’t it?”

John just shrugs and turns to keep an eye on the door.

Sherlock doesn’t elaborate any further.

Sure enough, E-H soon arrives. She almost looks like some kind of ghoul, wandering the empty, white-washed halls in a worn hospital gown. But when she stops at the door, she suddenly has the commanding presence of a soldier, or a guard.

“Are you ready to cooperate?” she asks. There’s a threat in her voice.

Sherlock stands, his hands up so she can see them, and says, “It doesn’t have to be like this. I know, this is all you’ve ever known, but there’s a whole world out there that’s so much better” - he glances at John with a hopeful smile. “You can do anything - well, almost anything - as long as you don’t use your ability on people.”

“Why not?” she demands, but underneath the harsh no-nonsense voice of the guard, there’s something like petulance.

He glances over at John again, this time with a bit of a frown. “They don’t like it. They don’t like being used or manipulated-”

“Or lied to,” John can’t help but put in.

“Or lied to,” Sherlock agrees.

“Why should I care what they like?” she insists.

“Because then you won’t have to use your ability,” Sherlock says, “Then they’ll just want to do things for you. And it’s better that way.”

John doesn’t like the direction this is going, but he sees the point.

“That’s why we’re here, isn’t it?” Sherlock continues. “Because you’re lonely. Because at least the rest of us were equals. We were pitted against each other, but at least we weren’t alone. But they usually kept you in isolation.”

“You’re wasting my time,” E-H snaps. “I’m superior to all of you.”

To John’s surprise, Sherlock asks, “What do you want me to do?”

She cocks her head to the side, considering. Finally she challenges again, “Show me what you can do.”

Sherlock lets out a sigh. “We can do  _ anything _ . There aren’t really any guards or scientists here to evaluate us or force us to train. We can do things that are fun. Want to play a game?”

“A game?” she asks, dubious, and John doesn’t blame her - though he’s more worried about what that means to her than what Sherlock has in mind.

“I’ve been trying to solve a case,” Sherlock says and launches into an explanation.

She interrupts him mid-sentence. “Why?”

“To tell you the truth,” Sherlock says, “M-H is on the way to rescue us-”

“Sherlock!” John exclaims. But it’s too late, he’s already given up their plan.

“The idea is to be honest, right?” Sherlock counters.

“Yes, but-” John gestures at E-H, amazed that it’s even a question.

“I expect M-H to join us,” E-H confirms.

“He’s not planning on staying,” Sherlock warns her. “But I thought we might as well have some fun while we waited. Maybe convince you to join us in the real world.”

She doesn’t look convinced, but she tells Sherlock to, “Continue.”

John lets out a breath of relief.

He doesn’t really listen to Sherlock and E-H talking, working out the details of a case as though they were back in the sitting room in his flat at 221B Baker Street, not in a cell in an empty prison. This is probably the most normal day of E-H’s life.

For some reason, John can’t help but think of Mary, and the first time he saw her body, covered in scars. They were faint - old and quickly healed - but in retrospect, there were more than could ever be accounted for by a normal accident-prone childhood. All of them are like that, and John too. He’s still ashamed it was a bit of a relief that she had scars too, that she didn’t stare at the knotted flesh of his shoulder.

“John, are you alright?” Sherlock’s urgent voice breaks him out of his reverie.

John startles into full awareness. He brushes the tears out of his eyes before he realizes what they are.

“Did you do anything to him?” Sherlock demands, staring at E-H.

“No,” she says, suddenly defensive and maybe a little frightened. “I didn’t say anything to him.”

John waves it off. “I’m okay, Sherlock, really,” he says. He doesn’t want to talk about this, not right now.

Sherlock meets his eyes, John can feel his gaze prying, but he doesn’t say anything. Instead he turns back to E-H and continues going over the case.

Not long after that, Mycroft arrives. A whole swarm of officers descend on the complex and suddenly the whole place is alive in a way it wasn’t before. John gets the strange feeling that this is what the Institute was usually like; full of trained combatants on a mission. Sherlock and E-H immediately tense.

She’s taken away by men wearing headphones, so they can’t hear anything she may say, but she looks more frightened than dangerous. If she does well, they might even try to rehabilitate her - apparently there’s been success with one of the superhumans that escaped from the other facility in Japan who has similar powers, though they’re a lot younger.

They’re all back on the mainland now - of course Mycroft called in helicopters to take them off the island. John is sitting out on the back of an ambulance, a shock blanket over his shoulders. Most of the people Mycroft brought in have dispersed already and everyone E-H forced to act as a guard has been taken to the hospital - a few of them have already been identified as former employees at the Shelley Institute. Mycroft and Sherlock are back to their usual bickering, though Sherlock keeps glancing over at John.

John isn’t sure what he wants. He’s strangely comfortable where he is - he isn’t particularly looking forward to going back to an empty house. He is surprisingly worn out for spending most of the day sitting around in a cell. He hasn’t had much to eat either. There’s a lot he isn’t ready to process, maybe he’ll never be ready.

Suddenly, Sherlock turns away from Mycroft and strides over to John. This is exactly the sort of thing John wasn’t ready for, but he steels himself and stands to meet him.

“How are you feeling?” Sherlock asks, there’s something clearly uncomfortable about the question.

“Fine,” John says.

Sherlock nods. “Good.” He hesitates. Suddenly, he blurts out, “Dinner? Or whenever you’re free really, you know I don’t keep normal hours, at least I don’t have to.”

It takes John a long moment to register everything Sherlock just said. “You’re asking me out on a date?” he asks, just to be sure.

“Well, yes,” Sherlock says, a little reluctantly.

“And was this whole thing by any chance set up to give you this opportunity?” John demands.

“No,” Sherlock insists. When John’s dubious expression doesn’t fade he says, “I swear, it wasn’t. I’ve been planning on asking for a while, I was just… waiting for the right time.”

“I see,” John says.

“Molly’s been giving me pointers - she’s been over a lot making sure I stay clean,” Sherlock explains. When John still doesn’t answer, he asks, “So, what do you say?”

Finally, against all of his better judgement, John says, "Fine. Let's go."

"Now?" Sherlock asks, surprised.

"Yeah, I'm starving," John says before he can take it back.

"Yes!" Sherlock exclaims."I know just the place!"

John follows him a little warily, but his excitement is contagious - John can feel his heart racing. He knows this will make it harder to return to his empty house at the end of the day, that this is the beginning of a dangerous road, but he can’t bring himself to turn around.

They end up going to Angelo’s, where they sit at Sherlock’s favorite spot by the window, so he can comment on passers by when he isn’t looking for a murderer. The place is quiet; it’s well past dinner time. Angelo brings over a little tea candle to set the mood. Sherlock glances over at John, who just shrugs - it is technically a date after all.

John stares out the window, onto the dark street, illuminated by orange lamplight. People meander along the sidewalks, chattering and laughing. Occasionally, a car drives past, its headlights cut through the night. It’s all so normal, so mundane. Even this, sitting at a restaurant, having a quiet night out. It makes it hard to believe that just hours before they were imprisoned by a madwoman in a facsimile of a secret lab.

Sherlock is watching him intently from across the table, still smiling a little - he looks more than a little smug. His eyes flicker over to the window, following John’s gaze. “At first I thought it was all dreadfully dull,” he remarks, “But the world outside has its points of interest” - he’s looking at John as though he’s the most interesting thing in the world. “Turns out it was the Institute that was boring. Nothing but training and missions; no variety.”

“You never wanted to leave?” John asks despite himself.

Sherlock shrugs. “Where would we go? Sometimes failures tried to escape before they were scrapped, but that never went well.”

It sounds like another world, like the Institute couldn’t possibly exist alongside a generally peaceful city bustling with ordinary people, going about their lives. But John feels the same way about the war. Sometimes it seems like a surreal nightmare and other times the present seems like a dream he’s about to wake up from. So much has happened today alone that his mind hasn’t quite caught up.

Again, Sherlock guesses what he’s thinking. “You feel it too.” He gestures out the window. “They all feel safe and comfortable in their ordinary lives, they can’t even imagine the war going on around them, but it’s there and you know it. Lestrade kind of sees it, but you’re the only human I’ve met that understands it.”

“That’s why you asked me to move in with you?” John asks. It feels like a lifetime ago, but he still remembers that day at Barts.

Sherlock nods. “Do you regret it?” he asks, almost challenging him.

John hesitates. That’s the question he’s been asking himself ever since Mary died. Isn’t it better not to have to deal with it at all? Finally, John shakes his head. “No. I can’t regret it. I hate it sometimes, but I can’t regret it.”

Sherlock flinches a little at his words. “I’m sorry. I promised I would protect you - both of you. You have every right to blame me for what happened.”

John shakes his head. “It’s not your fault - at least what happened with Mary isn’t. Maybe you could have gotten through to her better than I could, you seemed to understand E-H well enough. She just didn’t trust me.”

Sherlock frowns. “We’re not good at trust,” he admits.

“No, you’re not,” John says.

Sherlock hesitates. “I don’t think she trusted me any more than she trusted you, or herself for that matter.”

John just sighs. He doesn’t want to think about all of that right now. He can already feel his eyes dampening.

“John.” Sherlock reaches out a hand, but he doesn’t seem entirely sure what to do with it.

“Yes?” John says. It comes out a little impatient.

Sherlock hesitates again. “I trust you.”

“You’re not worried I won’t be able to keep my mouth shut?” John can’t help but demand.

“I- I was wrong about that,” Sherlock admits. “And about how to get you back. Even though you are attracted to danger.”

“Real danger,” John says, because he can’t deny it.

“It was real!” Sherlock protests.

John gives him a look.

“I shouldn’t have done it on purpose,” Sherlock says reluctantly. “I just didn’t know how else I would ever see you again.”

“You could have given me space, or, you know, tried to talk to me like a normal person,” John says, not quite ready to give it up.

“I tried that,” Sherlock says.

John lets out a sigh. “I just needed space. Maybe I still need space.”

Softly, Sherlock says, “I miss her too.”

“I don’t even know if I miss her,” John exclaims, because apparently they’re talking about Mary now. “At least she didn’t think you’d leave if you read her file.”

Sherlock doesn’t seem to have any answer to that, but he doesn’t look away.

“I miss someone who didn’t even exist,” John says. He tries to steady his breathing and wipes the beginnings of tears from his eyes.

He startles at the feeling of Sherlock’s hand on his. “You don’t have to do it alone - if you don’t want to,” Sherlock declares awkwardly.

John can’t help but smile a little at the absurdity of it all - somehow his life has come to being comforted by Sherlock Holmes. “Do what?” he asks.

“Anything,” Sherlock says more confidently.

“Thank you, Sherlock,” John says, and he means it.

After dinner, Sherlock walks John back to his house. He doesn’t push his way in, and John is torn between being grateful and disappointed. Instead, they stop at the door. They both hesitate on the mat. Their eyes meet, and it feels like it would be impossibly difficult to look away. John abruptly remembers that he isn’t the only one without anyone to come home to.

There’s something tentative in Sherlock’s gaze. He awkwardly extends an arm and puts a hand on John’s forearm. John doesn’t pull away. Without thinking, his tongue darts across his lips. Sherlock smiles a little and bends down to kiss him. It feels like so long since John has kissed anyone, it takes him by surprise even though he’s expecting it. The press of Sherlock’s lips on his is much gentler than last time they kissed, and then he steps back before John has a chance to reciprocate.

Only then does Sherlock turn away to go back to Baker Street, turning the collar of his coat up against the wind as he goes. John smiles despite himself and shakes his head at the familiar gesture. For a moment, he wants to run after him, to follow him back home, but he has a lot to process after a long day.

* * *

Less than a week later, John receives a text; “Come if convenient -S,” shortly followed by, “Could be dangerous.”

As soon as his shift at the clinic is over, he catches a cab to 221B Baker Street. Sherlock seems surprised to see him, but greets him with a grin. One case soon gives way to another, and eventually he’s spending more time there than at his own house. Sherlock doesn’t press, he just seems to make the best of the time they have, running around the city together, chasing after only the strangest cases - the dinners out are a bonus. John even starts back up his blog.

John is sitting on the couch, working on his latest blog entry. Sherlock is, as usual, sprawled all over the couch, including John. It doesn’t look like he can see what John is typing but ever so often he makes some comment.

“The dress was blue, not indigo,” Sherlock puts in.

John gives him a look. “Does it really matter what color it was?”

“If you’re going to post about my cases, you should at least be accurate about it,” Sherlock says, but he has a wry smile.

“Well, it looked indigo to me,” John insists, and continues typing.

“I was created to have superior vision,” Sherlock retorts, drawing himself up so he somehow ends up mostly perched on John - thankfully not too heavily.

“And how do you know I wasn’t?” John asks, accepting that he isn’t going to finish the blog entry now. He puts aside the computer to put his arms around Sherlock, in part to keep him balanced.

Sherlock’s eyes widen in surprise and John counts it as a victory. “That’s impossible.”

“Most of the people we know were created in some kind of lab,” John points out.

“I would have known if you were at the Institute,” Sherlock says. He’s looking at John very intently, searching his eyes for some evidence that what he’s saying is false.

“Maybe I was at the other facility in Japan,” John suggests.

Sherlock seems to consider it before finally saying, “No. You couldn’t be. You’re too… human.”

John grins. “You really thought about it though.”

Sherlock attempts to cover it up - “Just as a thought experiment. You should be flattered; few humans even come close.”

“Very flattered,” John intones. “And here I was getting comfortable.”

“Were you?” Sherlock asks eagerly. His face his just inches away.

“Maybe,” John hedges. He glances away. More seriously, he remarks, “It is a bit of a waste to have a house when I spend most of my time here anyway.”

“Are you sure?” Sherlock asks. He hesitates. “I know I can be… difficult.”

“There’s always the upstairs room - you could stay up there if I need the space.” John shrugs. “Just something I’ve been thinking about.”

“One of my” - he hesitates - “relatives could probably use a place to live,” Sherlock remarks - “If you’re looking to sell.”

John nods in thought. “Maybe.”

After a moment’s pause, Sherlock asks hopefully, “Does that mean you’ll be staying over tonight?”

“I could,” John says with a smile, and leans in for a kiss.


End file.
